


Have You Ever Seen the Light?

by a_mere_trifle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(For a prompt at the kink meme; largely gen) You find him hiding in the shadows of a ruined wall, a tattered lump of odd soft flesh and faded blue; and he gives you the bridge between survival and living like it's as common as the sand. It is, to him. Why he keeps telling you <i>you're</i> the strong one, you're never going to understand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Ever Seen the Light?

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/9406.html?thread=13910718#t13910718) at the kink meme.
> 
> (i had meant to scout out prompts for ladies' night. clearly that went brilliantly.)
> 
> Title is from [Sam's Town](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5zLnfDVgVM) because it'd been in my head for ages and it kinda fit. (i see lowas, i see can town...)

\--

You find him hiding in the shadows of a ruined wall.

It's not much of a coincidence at all; this is a harsh desert, oven-hot, with glaring sands, and this is the only decent shade you've seen for-- probably for miles.

You could be afraid of him, but your enemies are nearly as long dead as your friends, and honestly you're not totally sure anymore death wouldn't be a mercy.

You could be afraid for him, since everyone you've ever known has died, usually at your hand. But you're tired, and this is a half-starved stranger, and as you settle slowly down in the sand you realize what that shade of blue reminds you of.

It's an hour before he stirs, a strange arm only a few shades off from the sand shifting from where it was half-buried, odd blue-rimmed eyes blinking slowly at you from behind glass.

He doesn't run. He doesn't attack. He just looks at you, as if he's not totally sure you're actually there, less certain that it matters.

You reach under the tarp in your salvaged-- _borrowed_ \-- cart, pulling out a small flask of water, which you can technically maybe (not) afford to lose anyway. You hold it out, and he takes it, gulping once, then sipping, slowly, watching you with wary eyes.

When the sun sets further down, you leave the shadows, back to your old familiar trail.

He follows you, and you don't stop him.

\--

A week later, he starts talking.

You already have cause to be glad for your act of mercy; he understands the sanctuaries far better than you, picked up in a day most of what it took you years to figure out, coaxed it into revealing new stores of food in ways you still don't understand. He's a little cautious, but more abused-puppy than suspicious; sad and fearful, not angry. He probably should be. You bet you failed him too, somehow.

One night, you're sitting outside under the stars, a comforting fire flickering safely between you, when he says, in a scratchy voice, "Thank you."

You clear your throat, suddenly nervous; even the last time you had company, you were all rather too war-weary and exhausted to talk a lot. An awful lot of your communication went without words, and you don't want to think about how long that's been.

"You're welcome," you manage to rasp.

He looks down, at the brown frothy mug of sugar he somehow got the sanctuary to produce; and, insanely, he says, "I'm sorry."

You blink, confused, but he's not looking for your reaction; his head bows over his cup, the fluffy blackness on top of his head shaking as he starts to sob.

You feel utterly helpless; this has got to be your fault too, and seeing the Heir, the one who was supposed to be your hope in ways you still don't fully understand, in such a (terribly familiar) state turns that dull, weary ache in the back of your heart to stabbing pain.

It's horribly awkward and you know you won't be any help, but you move across the fire regardless. You're not brave enough to do more than sit next to him, patting his back hesitantly, but he seems to take that as sufficient invitation to fall into your arms.

It's a strange feeling; he's unnaturally warm, a too-soft puddle even though you can feel more familiar hardnesses beneath that odd-colored padding. You probably feel cold and hard in comparison, you realize uncomfortably, like hugging a statue, but he doesn't seem to mind, and you wouldn't have the faintest idea how to disentangle yourself if you tried.

Maybe you should try; no friendship you've had yet has resulted in anything short of disaster, and you don't want to see him hurt. But out here, after the end of everything, nothing else left to get attached to-- you don't have the strength to stop him. It's hard to see the point in bothering to try.

So you hold him until he stops crying, until he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder; and it's not particularly wise to sleep out here, but you close your eyes anyway.

Maybe you're too broken for anything to bother hurting you anymore. You can hope.

\--

After that, you can't really get him to stop talking. But you can't really say you mind.

He _sounds_ cheerful, most of the time, like an old habit he can't break; he explains how he conjured food from the sanctuary's systems, tells you about what else he's trying to get it to do. He thinks there's information in there, somewhere; he thinks this is on a "network" with the other ones, though you're not sure why that matters. He thinks maybe it can still fly, but that fills you with more fear than hope.

But, he's got more experience with flying.

He asks you for your name, where you're from, and you tell him, as best you can; you don't understand your own story, don't really know where you came from, and he seems mostly ignorant of it too but it makes his eyes flash angrily.

"It's a stupid game," he says. "It's stupid and it's cruel and that shouldn't have to happen to anyone."

You shrug; "That's just how it is," you say. "I tried to do something once. But... that didn't work."

He bows his head. "It probably would've if we didn't screw up," he says, almost inaudibly, voice bitter with shame.

"Screw up?" you echo, confused.

"Jack," he says, and the name sends a shiver through you, even now.

"He won't come back," you say, probably to convince yourself. "We're all that's left."

"Yeah," he says, but his eyes are still sad.

"...Would you like to see something?" you find yourself saying, even though you know it's incredibly dumb and embarrassing and he'll laugh--

"Huh?" he says, perking up, and after that you just have to go through with it.

So you show him Can Town, or what's left of it; and he does laugh, but he isn't mocking you, he's grinning ear-to-ear. "This is _awesome_ ," he says, and to your surprise, you're certain he means it.

You stay up far too late playing Mayor, trying not to think of how this is the closest you've felt to okay in years.

\--

He doesn't talk a lot about what happened to him, and you understand, because it's probably a lot like what happened to you. You've managed to tell him a little about the battlefield, about the first time you faced Jack, but you think you must have done it wrong, because he stared at you, eyes wide, and said, "Holy crap, you might be the biggest badass since Nick Cage."

You made the mistake of asking who that was. You still don't really have any idea, but you know better than to ever ask again.

He has told you a little bit, though. He talked a little about his father's cooking, one night when he tried to make some human dessert; "This isn't anything near as good as his," he said, looking down at it mournfully, though to you it tasted like heaven. "He used to make it all the freaking time, I got so sick of it, but now..."

And he sighed, and never did eat another bite. It was purely for the sake of his peace of mind that you ate the rest of it before morning.

He talks a little bit about his friends, sometimes; he always smiles when he does it, though he's sad right after. "I try to just remember how awesome they were," he said once; and, lower, "How the hell did I wind up the only one left??"

You knew what he meant. You said so. You didn't explain, because you aren't as good at he is yet at just remembering the good.

He doesn't talk a lot about what happened on Prospit, or in those strange worlds he was in, or while he was Heir at all; that's probably so recent it still hurts, you suspect, and it's begun to occur to you recently that maybe he's just like you-- maybe he doesn't entirely understand what happened to him, either. He did remember that you'd met, eventually, and laughed it off, saying he was glad to have the chance to get to know you better. You're still racking your mind for a way to explain about the screens.

He's called it a "game", which confuses you, but there's really no need to press; you have all the time in the world, endless time, far too much of it, so why rush things?

One morning, you realize how long it's been since you made your rounds; and he asks you why you're going out, as you pull the cart from its nook.

"I like to look around," you say. "I, don't know what for really, but..." You want to say 'just in case', but just in case of what? What could turn up out there in that desert? What would you wish that on?

"But it sucks wandering around out there!" he says, and you've got to admit he's right; you don't want to mention that usually you go on a longer patrol, visiting all the Sanctuaries in turn. Just in case. It doesn't matter; you don't want to drag him out there with you, and you don't want to leave him for so long. You'll figure out what to do instead eventually.

"Hang on," he says, brightening suddenly; and you are reminded suddenly that this was a prince of Prospit, a former avatar of hope and light. You were supposed to hate him, you vaguely remember, but you never were much good at doing what you should. "I have a better idea!"

He sticks s couple flasks in his pockets, some food in a pack on his belt, and fixes his tattered cape around his neck, dragging you outside. "If you want to kinda scout the land, I know a much better way," he says, and opens his arms. "If you trust me?"

Well, you do, though you still have no idea what he's talking about; you nod hesitantly before you can think about it, and he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He's still soft and warm, even softer than he used to be, and your heart does strange contortions in your chest as a strange, dizzy feeling spreads through your body.

"You ready?" he says, and before you can ask what for, he's taken off.

Suddenly, you remember _really clearly_ that he can _fly_.

You stop screaming after a couple of minutes, and then you have to admit that yes, this is rather more practical than trudging so far through the hot sands, but he really should maybe warn a person _oh god no not a barrel roll NOT A BARREL ROLL_.

He brings you back down for lunch, at her old sanctuary already, grinning unrepentantly; you glare at him, just a little, munching your green beans in a huff.

"You aren't really mad, are you?" he asks, after a while, his smile fading.

"...No," you admit. You can't be mad at magic.

"Does that mean we can go up again?" he says, hopefully.

"Fine," you say, as if it's some kind of concession. "But no more barrel rolls!"

On the way home, he does loop-de-loops instead. You don't mind, because those are possibly the best things ever.

But you suspect it might be dangerous to tell him that.

\--

He's changed everything.

It kind of staggers you when you think about it, which you try not to do, because you've always known happiness as a fragile, fragile thing.

This is still a desert; but now you have food, water. You no longer need to worry as much about the day it runs out, about the day you finally discover just how long your too-solid constitution can go without.

(You wondered once how he managed in the desert for so long; his smile was a small and terrible thing. He said, "Because dying like that would've just been frickin' stupid.")

You were alone, and now you are not; but it is so much more than that. You have a difficult time explaining it, even to yourself. The last time you had companions, it was miraculous, uplifting, yes-- there was a faint possibility of resurrection, the old world brought back to life out of this desert, perhaps done right this time. But it was never more than a glimmer to you; the road to that goal was long and hard, and somehow-- somehow it left you discontent.

But he. But the Heir. He was from somewhere different entirely. He spoke of other worlds like a reality; he dropped small hints of a life like something you had never imagined. He spoke of things above all that, even, once in a while, spoke of the puppetmasters you had always dimly sensed, like-- like things that could be met. Like things of unimaginable power, yes, but things that could be seen, spoken with, faced down, fought-- and you know that fight would be just as suicidal as the last, but you never quite came to regret your failed revolution. Just standing up-- simply standing up can mean a lot.

And to stand up against whatever had set the world up to work this way, what he hinted had engineered all his disasters too-- well. Even if it didn't help, that would be a death worth dying.

He had opened up the universe, you decided, eventually, and god, did this wasteland need it.

He's buried himself in the electronics of one of the sanctuaries again, equipment he himself cheerfully admits he only half-understands; you've learned how to ask the machines for sandwiches, and you bring one of his favorites. He pulls his head out from under the console when he hears you put the plate, smiling self-deprecatingly at you. "I forgot lunch again, didn't I?" he says. "Thanks, V."

"You're welcome," you answer, and hesitate again over what to call him. You're still half-inclined to give him titles, because of what he was, all he is-- but he swears it makes him nervous, and you were never much for reverence, yourself. Well. It isn't quite reverence you feel.

But it's about time you settled on a name; so, a little warily, you finish, "...John."

The smile he gives you at that could light up a universe. Looking at his track record, you think, you really shouldn't be surprised.

\--

Eventually, you tell him about the windows.

You start it over dinner, over a particularly beautiful leafy salad, while he has some Earth delicacy called a 'cheeseburger' he worked long and hard to figure out how to assemble. You guess you think the food will be a sort of safety net, a comfort blanket; or maybe you just remember how he always talks about the family dinners he used to have.

You explain that you had trapped yourself in here, and there was a boy on the screen, and a keyboard, and how you used to try to talk to him; he doesn't seem surprised, actually, just says, "Oh, I remember that!" He's been looking at the screens for a while, though they've been dead for months, for years now; you finally had to tell him what they were.

"It was odd that it was commands, though," you say. "I hope it wasn't too forward..."

"No," says John, "it really isn't odd at all."

You look at him, questioning; he sighs, putting the hamburger down. "I guess you never heard of Sburb?"

You shake your head, though it sounds vaguely familiar.

"The way it happened for us," he said, "was one day, we decided to try this video game. Wait, did you have those? Games you play on screens like those?"

You shake your head. "Maybe in the cities?"

"Man..." John shakes his head. "But it was called Sburb, and we thought it was just a game when we started playing it. But then meteors started destroying everything. And then we got transported to weird other planets." He gestures at your wall; you've seen him looking at the drawings before. "And it was still, I don't know, told to us like it was a game? Like there were rules we had to follow and bosses we had to beat and things. But it was also real. I don't think I realized how real until I met you, but it was still totally real! But... I think it took me too long to realize that."

"What do you mean?" you ask, as he looks down at his plate, poking it with a fry.

"I used to treat it like a game," he says. "No one dies forever. If you screw up, you can just restart... I did things I shouldn't have and fell for stupid stuff and got everyone into a whole lot of trouble. I don't know how I'm the only one who... who's left."

He takes a deep breath, and you swallow hard; you know how that feels, and he shouldn't have to, no one should have to.

"But, maybe it would've happened anyway," he says, bitterly. "Apparently the whole thing-- the game, the worlds, I think even Prospit and Derse and maybe even Skaia-- or maybe just our versions of it? Because there were a lot of versions of it, V! More Skaias and Prospits and Derses than I could count. But ours was rigged-- maybe they all were."

"Wh... more...?" You're not totally sure what you're saying; your mind is filled with more battles, more failed revolutions, more deserts, more exiles, more complete failures-- a lot of them, near carbon copies, everything you went through again and again. You put down your fork; you don't think you could possibly swallow.

He says, "There was this guy. This thing? I don't know, I didn't meet them for long before they kicked my ass. There was this one guy who was a complete tool, a guy with a cueball for a head in this green suit-- he was bad enough, but he was _working_ for something. I don't know what That wanted, but... but it was terrible. And they've screwed up whole timelines and universes to get it. Maybe, to feed it."

"Universes...?" you say.

"Ours... other timelines... we met these trolls, they had people like you of their own, I think they all..." He shakes his head, tearfully.

 _People like you of their own._ He really does mean what you thought he meant.

He says, "Somewhere along the line we got convinced that we screwed everything up to where we couldn't fix it anymore. Or, that it had all been screwed up from the beginning. So we decided, I think that cueball guy put it in our heads, to-- to kind of restart everything. Make a new world, where we'd have a chance to begin with this time. Our world would be gone, but we were gonna find someplace to run away, all of us, and then we'd-- help out, I guess? I don't know, did I mention we were all pretty stupid?"

He rests his head in his hand; you're still not sure you totally understand what he's talking about, but you bet he doesn't either, and you're not going to interrupt this.

"But they all died trying to get it done," he says, softly. "All of them. All those trolls I mentioned, they were gone too. Dave and Rose died making the Scratch, I don't know how, and Jade and I got to where we were supposed to meet up, but that cueball, that guy, that guy that I..."

His eyes are shut tight; his breathing's gone all ragged. You don't know what to do. "You don't have to tell me," you say, because, well, because you know; what use are the details?

"...I know." John straightens up a bit, and he's smiling; you can't imagine why. "That's why you're so awesome."

"Huh?"

"Because, because you know what I mean," he says. "Because you... lost everything too. And because you were way better at it than me! You started a frickin' revolution, how cool is that?! And I bet it would've worked, too, if it wasn't for Jack." His head drops again. "I... I think that was my fault..."

As if a monster like that could be the fault of one boy. "You said it was, some kind of game? A plan?"

"Yeah," says John. "But I still don't know what for! He-- he couldn't kill me, so-- he just left me here, I don't know what happened, or if what we did worked, or... I don't even know how long I was in that desert..."

You want to hug him, like you did that night; but he's turned in on himself, right now, willing himself not to cry, and it doesn't seem the time. He's trying to hard to be so brave, and--

"How long were you in that desert?" he asks.

You blink at the sudden reversal. "I... don't know," you answer-- honestly as it happens. "It's hard to measure time out there. Months, maybe longer, since... since we met Jack again. Before that... a very long time."

"And you didn't give up," he says. "You're still here."

You stare at him, confused; just being here doesn't mean you haven't give up... or, in this place, maybe it does.

"So I'm not gonna give up either," says John, and he grins.

It's a positively disorienting grin, really, and the way he immediately proceeds to pick his cheeseburger back up and start eating like he was never interrupted doesn't help, either. "Aaaw, I let it get cold," he complains. "It's still good, though!"

You look down at your salad, and pick up your fork. _I haven't given up,_ you think, experimentally.

It doesn't quite feel true... but it might be worth a shot.

\--

You haven't thought about it in a while, but you still have the ring.

You're not totally sure why you never threw it away. You don't see any use to it; it isn't glowing anymore. You doubt you'd want to put it on if it was anyway. You never had the courage to before... though maybe you could've worked it up if you had time. Maybe you were supposed to be a king... but you always hated monarchy.

Maybe it really was doomed to begin with.

Still, you've been staring at it a lot recently. One bit of magic you haven't lost... one thing you're still programmed to cling to, even if its intended function has long passed, and who knows? Maybe it will still be useful someday.

John's been fiddling with the screens since you told him about them; you're a little worried about how much attention he's giving to them, but you can't deny it could be really important. He says that the power's working fine, even if one of the screens is cracked, but they're all still some weird unnatural blue. Bluer even than John's eyes, than his old cape, and really, what needs to be bluer than that?

You tuck the ring back into a pocket, going to check on him. He's got the screens black again, fiddling with wires and green jeweled boards and funny metal things under the console; he looks like he's shoving them back in, right now, which means he's probably about to try something again. Speaking of...

"What is it you're trying to get that to do?" you ask, curiously.

"Well, I don't really know where these things get signals from, but..." John closes one of the access panels, starting to shove wires back into the other. "If it could pick up one channel, there's got to be others out there, right? So I'm trying to see if I can rig it to pick those up!"

You don't really know what channels are, not the way he means it, but now doesn't seem the time to ask. "Why?"

"We could maybe see what's going on somewhere-- maybe even help some other kids out! Or maybe even figure out how to get out of here!"

"Out of here...?" It's an outlandish idea, but of course it seems perfectly normal to him; he isn't from this place. He used to slip between worlds all the time, not that long ago...

"Yeah! I-- oh." He bites his lip, before letting it go, embarrassed. "Uh, you, you don't want to stay here, do you?"

"I... hell, no!" you blurt, and wince at the profanity; you never approved of excessive swearing in general, but in front of him... "No. This place is terrible, except for the people I've found here. The sanctuaries are kind of nice, and maybe if there was some kind of future for this place--"

You stop, realizing you're babbling. Odd how the vision came to you so easily. "But there isn't. So yes, I'd like to do something! It just, hadn't occurred to me that we possibly could."

"Maybe I'd just screw it up again..."

You look at him. "John. Didn't you tell me that someone designed all of this?"

"I still fell for it," he sighs, but he's snapping the second panel into place now.

"So did I," you point out.

"But nobody told you--"

"Did they tell you?"

"...No," he admits.

"So, let's see if maybe we can tell them," you say, liking the idea more and more. "Maybe we can at least help them figure out what questions to ask?"

"Maybe!" says John, getting up, dusting off his knees. "Anyway, I guess it's dumb to worry when we can't even work this thing yet."

He presses what you have come to learn is the power button; an odd green house design lights the screens, even the broken one, its segments spinning slowly in what you've been told is the "loading screen". The screens blank, for a second--

\--and are filled with flickering static, strange bright green characters almost indistinguishable in the top right of each segment. For some reason, John reacts to this with a whoop of delight.

"What--?"

"It's not blue anymore!" he cries. "This means I've at least got it off that one stupid channel. It was locked on me, or where i used to be, before it got burned out, right? Like you said the others only showed my friends! This was locked to one dead channel, and now maybe I can tune it to others!" His smile dims a bit. "If there are any others out here..."

He shakes that off quickly, turning a dial he patched in from some other device. "God, I wish I learned more about electronics," he mutters. "I wish I learned more about everything..."

He seems to know a whole lot to you; but before you can muster up the courage to say so, one of the screens flickers purple, just for an instant, and John drops the dial in excitement.

"There ARE channels out there!!" he crows. He whirls around to face you, with that brilliant grin that makes something in your head go utterly still, and-- and you really aren't sure at all how, but he seems to have pounced on you, hugging you tight. You stagger for a moment, busy trying to keep your balance, before you realize his lips are on your forehead-- and between your eyes-- and nudging away the fabric that covers your face--

\--You forget about keeping your balance entirely, because you have finally realized he is _kissing_ you, and even if their lips are softer and their tongues-- oh, oh dear-- really rather wetter-- that's one thing that's the same for both of you-- or wait, is it? What if this is human for, for 'hooray', or, for 'goodbye'--

He leans back, his arms still around around you, and you realize that you're gasping for air, in something that isn't quite panic but feels a hell of a lot like it right now. At the moment, you're not sure what you feel except completely and staggeringly confused, but he doesn't seem to mind that too much; it might have something to do, you think, with the fact that you seem to have wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him right back.

"...What?" you manage, and are really quite proud of yourself for putting in the valiant effort.

"I..." he says, and something odd is happening to his cheeks; they seem an awful lot pinker than they did a minute ago. "I, guess I kind of like you. An awful lot."

"Oh," you answer. Not your most intelligent response, but, you think it's forgivable under these circumstances.

"Is... Is that okay?"

He looks nervous, those strange blue human eyes wide, and you can feel his heart beating faster if you think about it. An alien creature, the Prince of Prospit, the Heir of Breath, in and out of your life for untold years and still ridiculously young, and there's no one left, not from any universe either of you can claim, and you're realizing more and more that the both of you were born and bred to be cogs in someone else's machine. What does "okay" even mean anymore?

You don't know if it's okay or not. The only true thing you can answer is, "I like you too."

That's not the answer to the question he asked, but it's probably the answer to the question he meant, because he's grinning again, leaning back in to do strange and probably dangerous things to your heart.

(You realize later that you did lose your balance, and it was only his magic keeping the two of you upright.

You find that strangely appropriate, somehow.)

\--

The channel's still kind of staticky, but it's stable and it's pretty clear; it shows a purple room, possibly a cave, and there's a dark figure working at what you think is some kind of loom. These people are still shaped pretty much like you and John, bipedal and everything, but they seem to have ears, and fluffy tails, and possibly muzzles too. If the room were at all green, or this kid were pure white or purer black, that would probably be freaking you out a little; as it is, you're scouring the grainy bootleg picture for clues as John smiles ruefully, mumbling, "Jade would've loved them."

There's no way to know if the transmission will work, and you know from experience the messages were usually subliminal; but it looks like you can watch, and maybe you can help. At the least, it's a window to a place that isn't here, and maybe windows can be opened.

Or broken. You're also okay with breaking things.

"I don't know if I can get the picture any better," says John, "but I'll keep trying later. I wish they'd made the user's manual on these things easier to find..."

"But then we might figure out what we're doing," you point out.

John laughs, and sighs. "Holy crap, we have got to find a way to stop those assholes."

You were never that ambitious-- if you manage to make it out of this desert it'll be success beyond your wildest dreams-- but it's certainly an idea you can get behind. "You really think we can get out of here?"

"Those other jerks managed it!" John steps behind you, wrapping you up in a hug. You're still getting used to it, to any contact at all, to him, warm and soft and oddly strong and sometimes embarrassingly exploratory-- but unlike most of the crazy upheavals in your life, this is one you're actually enjoying getting adjusted to. "We'll get out of here, and we'll figure out what really happened, and we'll make it so something goes _right_ , next time. Any time! I hear time can be really weird that way."

"We might even find some new friends?" _Or some old ones?_ , you don't add-- the thought that he actually did manage to reset his universe, and therefore probably yours, doesn't sit entirely easy with you. _You can't go home again,_ is the thought that comes to mind.

"Maybe!" John hugs tighter. "It'll be fun, you'll see."

Fun... that would be a new one. Then again... it's not as strange an idea these days as it used to be.

"This isn't how I expected anything to turn out," says John; maybe it's a random thought, or maybe he's caught your mood, the worry that once John actually has a choice, he'll choose somebody else. "And there's a lot of things I really wish didn't turn out the way they did. But, in spite of all that-- I'm really, really glad I got to know you. And don't you start thinking I'm going to ditch you! It's not going to be easy, and I'm gonna need someone strong and awesome to rely on!"

You turn to face him. "But, that's exactly what--"

John rolls his eyes. "Dumpass, I mean _you_ ," he says, smacking you on the arm.

You think he's probably insane, all told, but somehow you can't bring yourself to mind.

"I think we should try it," says John. "Go on." He nods at the keyboard, arms slipping lower around your waist.

"You want me to go first?"

"You've got more practice!"

More practice screwing it up; but that is, you suppose, technically true. You hover your hands over the keys, struck with a wave of deja vu that really isn't at all pleasant.

But maybe you can get it right this time. And that risk-- that risk is always worth it.

 _> You there. Kid._

 _> Look behind you._

John is leaning over your shoulder, holding his breath; the screen seems to get even fuzzier, grainy like water about to boil. Did the kid move? Was that just the screen?

And then-- they turn around, blinking orange-rimmed eyes, like a kid not sure if they just heard a monster under the bed.

You half expect John to let out a yell again, but when you turn around, his smile is soft and eager, his eyes ridiculously bright.

"We've got a chance," he says, happily.

"Let's take it," you answer.

It's a slim chance, but it's your second, your third, quite probably your last-- and if there's one thing the past _hasn't_ taught you, it's how to let a chance to fight back go.

\--


End file.
